Theia Mania
by chewiesgirlfriend
Summary: It has been two weeks since the car accident that left both her ex-husband and her daughter dead. Serena takes her to Athens.
1. Chapter 1

This was originally published on AO3 last summer, I'm just transferring it over in the hope that I'll be able to pick it up again! In this timeline Serena and Bernie aren't together yet, and Elinor is still very much alive. Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

It has been two weeks since the car accident that left both her ex-husband and her daughter dead. Serena takes her to Athens.

She tries her hardest to negate what Cameron tells her so bluntly - that she is 'running away again' - but she knows that he's completely right. Her son has always been a little too good at reading her. He abstains from judgement, as she knows he will, and not for the first time Bernie feels that it would be better for him to just shut her out of his life for good. He has lost a father and a sister in one day, and now his mother is leaving him to fly across Europe with a woman he sees as Marcus' newest replacement. But the ticket was intended for Elinor, and it is only because she is at a festival that week that she cannot go, and Bernie is Serena's first port of call as they had agreed, and Bernie tells herself that she is doing a friend a favour by going. She's lying to herself of course, because that's what cowards do. She's a god damned coward.

On the day of their flight, Serena drives them to the airport. Bernie hasn't been behind the wheel for two weeks, not since the phone call that told her of Charlotte's death and Marcus' deteriorating condition in ICU. By the time she had reached the hospital his heart had given up. Bernie's hands tremble violently as she reaches for the seatbelt, and Serena reaches out to steady them with her own. The warmth of skin-to-skin contact startles her; she hasn't let herself be helped or comforted in such a long time, and the emotion that rushes through her is almost alien. Something begins to stir in her abdomen but she forces it down as the car rumbles to life and the image of Charlotte's mangled body makes its way to the front of her mind - the mortuary assistant had looked apologetic as he pulled back the sheet to reveal it for identification, and all Bernie could think about was the dance shows she had watched her daughter perform in, and the way her limbs had moved like ribbons across the stage. In death they look stiff and broken, and will not move ever again. Ms Wolfe is experienced enough as a medic to know that for sure.

She grits her teeth and Serena buckles the seatbelt in for her like she's a fucking child.

The airport is far too loud and far too bright, and Bernie hasn't felt this overwhelmed since her time in Afghanistan. The lights leave spots in her vision. Every sound sets her on edge. A man puts his hand luggage in a tray and there is the sound of shrapnel against the hard metal exterior of a tank; the tray is placed on the roller conveyor and all she hears is the rattle of gunfire. Eventually she goes to take refuge in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat and drawing up her legs to rest her head on her knees. Eyes closed, she only has the scrape of her jeans against her cheek and the occasional sound of a toilet flushing to worry about. Twenty minutes pass; Serena has to call four times before she answers her phone and numbly states her location. They speak nothing of it as they board the plane, another thing which lingers unsaid between them.

They arrive in Athens that afternoon, and Bernie cannot quite believe how hot it is. Her mouth is dry; the air she breathes in is warm and heavy. The streets are narrow and the buildings are tall and the glare of the sun bounces off the pavements into her eyes, making it difficult to see without squinting. Graffiti is the only colour that bruises the dull walls; the rest is brown and grey. Cicadas screech in the trees. Her senses are saturated, and she has to withdraw from herself for a few moments before she can finally understand what Serena is saying to her.

"We're in 12F. It's right at the top, and the air con doesn't work but Dmitri's lending us some fans."

Bernie just nods helplessly, and allows Serena to lead her through the door of the apartment block and towards the lift. Her friend disappears for a minute and returns with their two cases. Bernie barely notices her absence. Once the lift doors fold shut on them, however, Serena is all she can think about; the small size of the carriage is mostly taken up by their cases, and the two women are pressed together so that the soft and distinctly feminine curves of Serena's front brush against Bernie's back. Their body heat mingles in the already oppressive warmth of the enclosed space, and she can smell the heavy odour of floral perfume mixed with the scent of sweat. Women in the army didn't bother with perfume. Life in the army was easy. She wishes sometimes that she had agreed to that ten year contract, that she had never accepted the position at Holby, and then she wouldn't be stuck in this world of messy relationships and societal convention and perfume. It is too late though. Her head is spinning. The lift shudders to a stop and the doors wrench open.

It takes the two of them five minutes to unlock their apartment. Serena struggles with the key for four of them, before Bernie holds out her hand.

"Let me try." They are the first words she has spoken since they arrived at the apartment, and Serena looks a little startled. She hands over the key, however, and Bernie unlocks the door with relative ease. 'Big macho army medic' echoes in her head, and she desperately wants Serena to say it, to conjure up some pretence of everything being okay again. The other woman remains silent, though, and simply follows Bernie into the apartment. The space between them swells even as they stand together at the entrance. Serena moves away to explore, and Bernie sits stiffly down.

The apartment is small, consisting of only four rooms, and the walls have been recently painted white. The furnishings are at odds with each other, and it looks as though parts of the living space have been redecorated in different eras under the influence of different fashions; the glass coffee table overshadows the wooden desk, and the white chairs that accompany them do not match with either. Nevertheless, the apartment is clean enough, and it is as good a place to grieve as any. Serena unfolds the sofa bed, leaving Bernie in possession of the single bedroom. She does not protest; she hasn't the energy, and it would be a pointless exercise anyway, as both women know that Serena would win this particular argument. So she drags her case into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her. Bernie is sat on the bed two hours later when Serena tentatively slips into the room to ask what she'd like to do about dinner.

"There's a pizza place just down the road. I'll go - you can stay and unpack."

Bernie can only nod mechanically, guilt at her uselessness washing over her like a tidal wave. Serena is gone before she has the chance to reply, no doubt frustrated by her lack of response. She doesn't unpack.

Just an hour later they are sat on the kitchen balcony in two of those god-awful white chairs, eating pizza from the box and sipping wine. Bernie had been reluctant to leave the sanctuary of her room, but had eventually done so out of courtesy to Serena, who is supposed to be enjoying a family holiday with her daughter. Instead she is burdened with the maudlin presence of an ex-army surgeon who is only just clinging onto the will to live. It's somewhat tragic.

The sun is setting over Athens, staining the skyline a deep red and brushing each of the hundreds of buildings before them with a rosy blush. Their apartment offers them an unobstructed view of the Acropolis, and it illuminates before their eyes as the sky darkens. A million lights flicker in the sea of civilisation around it. The artificial lamp on the balcony hums, casting a blue sheen down upon the balcony.

"More wine?" Serena offers, and Bernie holds out her glass in response. She knows that her friend had been reluctant to buy alcohol in anticipation of the way it might affect their moods, but Bernie is grateful for any respite from the black hole of grief that has taken up permanent residence in her chest. The alcohol numbs her senses, dulling the sharp ache of bereavement and allowing her body to succumb to secondary feelings, namely hunger. She hasn't eaten properly in weeks, and although the pizza tastes wooden, it leaves her feeling significantly more human. Serena meets her gaze as she sets the bottle of wine down at their feet.

"Feeling any better?" she asks hesitantly. Bernie murmurs her assent, taking a deep sip from her glass. They sit in silence again, and she feels a sudden rush of affection for her friend; Serena has been incredibly patient with her, a trait she knows doesn't come particularly easy to the surgeon. She has also remained uncharacteristically level-headed, even at the airport when Bernie had pulled her disappearing act. Curious now, both at the depth of her own feelings and at such a contradiction of nature, Bernie studies Serena with a carefully directed gaze. She is staring out at the sunset, an unreadable expression on her face, and Bernie can see the lights of the city reflected in her eyes. She wants to say something, but she isn't quite sure what.

"We should go and see the Acropolis tomorrow," she ventures at last. Serena turns to look at her, visibly surprised. Her expression settles into one of sympathy.

"You don't have to make an effort for me, Bernie. I don't mind staying in."

"No, I... I'd like to," she says, lowering her gaze and pressing her lips together in some semblance of a smile. "I'll probably never get the chance again."

There is a tangible pause. "Let's see how you feel in the morning," Serena finally says, before draining the rest of her wine. Bernie watches her throat move as she swallows, follows the blue shadow of her shirt collar down to the space between her collar bones. She has made up her mind already; they will go regardless of how she feels. She owes it to Serena.

It is too hot to sleep with the covers on that night, and Bernie ends up sprawled across the bed with just a shirt and her underwear on. Serena visits her room briefly to wish her goodnight, wearing a simple white nightdress. She looks like a moth in the yellowy hallway light, the thin fabric dipping over her breasts and floating around her thighs. Her eyes drift over Bernie's body, lingering a little too long on her legs, and Bernie is far too tired to feel self conscious. She knows that it is the array of scars there that have attracted her friend's attention, all picked up during her time in the army. They range from faint and shimmery candy floss wisps to thick, jagged silver marks that span the length of her calves and disappear into the crease of her ankle. Marcus had been shocked when he first saw them and preferred not to look at them, going as far as to shush Cameron when he had asked about them once over. Serena, however, reacts with what appears to be intrigue, her brow furrowing a little and her lips parting as if she wishes to ask about them. In the end of course she doesn't, and mumbles a vague 'goodnight' before making a swift exit.

Bernie sinks back down into the covers, every pore protesting as the warm, thick air settles on her skin like a blanket. She cannot bring herself to stand and turn on the fan. The alcohol has slipped a pleasant mask over her consciousness, and her mind is free of Charlotte and Marcus for the first time in two weeks. She knows that in the morning, once she remembers the brief hour of liberation, she will feel guilty. For now though she is content to think of other things, such as the continual buzz of cicadas outside, and the flickering of yellow light in the hallway, and the floral scent of Serena's perfume.

She sleeps surprisingly well that night.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning arrives in a rush of blue sky and golden light. It takes Bernie roughly three seconds to remember why she feels hollow, and she gets up immediately to make breakfast before the sadness sets in. There is no toaster in the apartment, so she improvises and sets bread out on the grill, remembering bitterly how Marcus had done the same once or twice in the early years of their marriage. When Serena enters she is stood on a chair, elbow deep in the cupboard in her search for the jam. Something falls to the floor with a clatter and she grumbles a short string of expletives.

"Having fun?" Serena's rich voice sends a shiver down her entire body, and she glances back over her shoulder sheepishly.

"I was just looking for the jam."

"It's on the side already," comes the reply as Serena crosses the kitchen to pick up the fallen item, which turns out to be a can of tomato soup. Bernie reaches out to take it from her and their fingers make contact. Serena doesn't let go of the can immediately, and looks up to meet her gaze. Acutely aware of the fact that she is still dressed in only underwear and the shirt she slept in, and of the other woman's proximity to her bare legs, Bernie feels her skin flush. And then the full weight of the can lands in her hands as Serena becomes conscious of the same thing and relinquishes her grip on it. She lowers her gaze and takes a few quick steps backwards, and the moment passes.

They eat their breakfast mostly without talking, neither woman daring to encroach upon the re-established boundaries they have subconsciously set between themselves.

The Acropolis is much less impressive up close, and Bernie thinks it's almost poetic. They spend an hour hiking up to it, stopping every now and then to sit and wonder at the view whilst they catch their breath. Groups of tourists pass them, chattering away in foreign tongues, and yet the two women exist in a bubble of shared understanding; they do not need to speak to converse. Perhaps months of sharing a theatre has helped them to achieve this, Bernie muses as she unsticks her legs from the seat and they begin to move again. She misses her work, and she misses the way she could be so finely tuned to what Serena was doing during an operation. Most of all she misses being able to think and feel without the dark cloud of grief hanging over her. The backs of her legs burn.

"It's bloody hot," her companion grumbles as they reach the marbled steps leading to the monument. Bernie murmurs an agreement, shielding her eyes from the sun and squinting up at it. It is nice to be occupied, she thinks as they make their way up the steps; it keeps her mind away from death.

"Careful, this bit's slippy," Serena says quietly, touching her arm to guide her away from the marble and onto the cobbled section. Casting her a somewhat grateful glance, Bernie makes the last step up to the wooden walkway. She grasps the railing that runs alongside it but quickly retracts her hand with a hiss as the sun-baked metal surface burns her palm.

"Shit," she mutters, drawing it to her chest. Serena's brow furrows.

"Are you alright?"

Bernie nods, warmth flooding her cheeks. The first thing she had learnt in Afghanistan was not to touch metal surfaces; she's slacking in her grief.

"Let me see," Serena offers, stepping closer and reaching to take her hand. Bernie flinches away, blinking down at the floor.

"I'm fine, Serena. You don't need to mother me." The words are snapped, more out of irritation at herself than anything, but Serena withdraws. A resigned expression ripples over her face. Bernie doesn't want to hear any response she might have, and so she turns on her heel and marches towards the Parthenon. She doesn't look back.

There is a small crowd gathered along one side of the monument, composed mainly of tour groups, each guide shouting to be heard over the wind. Bernie passes them all, heading to the edge of the hilltop where a stone platform has been erected. The view from it is phenomenal, and she wishes that she was in the right frame of mind to appreciate it properly. Buildings stretch in all directions, floating over the hilly landscape like sea foam suspended on waves. They wink at her as she moves, a thousand windows reflecting the overbearing light of the midday sun. Civilisation has progressed around the Acropolis, leaving it frozen in time, a shadow of its former self. Trust her to find the tragedy in it.

Bernie turns to glance back at the Parthenon and almost cries out in shock.

Before her she sees her daughter. Charlotte is stood there in a floaty summer dress, turned towards the monument so that her face is hidden from view, but Bernie would recognise her own flesh and blood anywhere. Her limbs are slender, muscular - a dancer's limbs. And her hair - as dark as Marcus', and far too long to be practical. How often had she scraped those locks into a bun, grumbling about the length of them? She would look into the mirror on the dressing table and see eyes, round and dark like her own, smiling back at her, and make some lighthearted comment or other to soften her complaints. In death, Charlotte's eyes had been purple with bruises, set like the first strokes of dusk against the marbled paleness of her skin. Bernie longs to see them bright with life and laughter again. She stumbles a little in a dreamlike attempt to get closer. The girl before her is the single most important thing in the universe at that moment; all else fades into an indistinct blur.

"Charlotte!" The word is ripped from her throat before she can think rationally about it. It quivers in the air and the world suspends its motion for an eternity.

The girl turns, and Bernie feels her something inside her shatter.

Her eyes are too light and too wide. Her mouth is far too narrow, and there is a gap in her teeth that shouldn't be there. As the girl looks at Bernie, her upper lip curls a little and her brow - too pronounced to be Charlotte's - furrows.

And the world moves again. The sounds and smells around her hit her senses like an avalanche, causing the edges of her vision to burst with colour. She sways on the spot.

"Sorry. I- I'm sorry," Bernie chokes out, voice breaking, and the girl moves away to rejoin her friends with a shrug. The ground is jolting beneath her feet, and all of a sudden she is aware of the weight of her body. She looks around wildly. People weave around her, fully absorbed in their own conversations, but Serena is nowhere in sight. Bernie reaches out blindly to clutch at the wall for support as her knees buckle.

A voice is speaking close to her head as she sinks to the floor, legs collapsing beneath her. She flinches away, unable to make out the different words, and covers her face with her hands. Her cheeks are hot and wet, and for a moment she thinks the skin of her palms will surely burn again but she keeps them firmly in place as a heavy pressure is applied to her shoulder. The voice continues to speak, more frantic and higher in pitch. It reminds her of an irritating fly, the way it sounds against her ear. Perhaps the words are Greek, Bernie thinks vaguely. Charlotte had never been to Greece. She would have loved it, being in a place of such historical significance. And the views! If Bernie wasn't mourning she thinks she would find them beautiful, and Charlotte always had an appreciation for aesthetics. Her baby-

"Bernie," a different voice says and everything stops.

Serena.

Gentle fingers wrap around her wrists, encouraging them away from her face. Bernie complies numbly. A breath shudders from her lips as the cool air hits her flushed skin. She sucks it back in and the coldness of it fills her lungs.

Serena's face is right before her own, and Bernie blinks a few times to clear her vision. It is too bright. The fingers leave her wrists to brush across her cheekbones. Coolness blossoms from them, those hands that have put together a thousand broken bodies; Bernie feels it sinking into her feverish skin. She exhales shakily.

"Oh, Bernie," Serena murmurs, a tremor lingering in her voice. Bernie feels the hands leave her face, and a small whimper escapes her lips as the skin there is left exposed. And then arms are threading their way beneath hers, taking upon themselves the weight she is too emotionally drained to carry, and Bernie finds herself being pulled towards Serena's chest. It is a warm and sweaty embrace, and her head swims as waves of nausea pass over her, but she feels less alone. Her back heaves in an undignified sob, and Serena's grip tightens around her middle.

"I'm sorry," Bernie chokes out, the words muffled by the thin material of Serena's blouse.

"Shh," comes the soft response. "It's okay. Come on, let's get you home." The arms lift her up, closer to the harsh glare of the sun. Bernie squeezes her eyes shut, hands scrabbling at Serena's back as she struggles to find her footing. She sobs again into the other woman's shoulder, distressed at her own weakness. The crowd around them is murmuring, weaving about, and the blurred glimpses Bernie gets of them make her dizzy. Serena must sense this, for she barks a few words and steers them both through the path she has created.

The next hour passes in a blur; she is trapped in her own thoughts as Serena helps her down the steep slope from the Parthenon, and she barely registers the whir of an engine beneath her legs as she is loaded into a taxi. The next thing she is fully conscious of is the warm weight of Serena's hand covering her own on the seat of the vehicle, and Bernie realises that her fingers are shaking beneath it.

"We're here," the words sound too close to her, and she feels an arm reach across her middle to unclip the seatbelt. She forgets how to breathe as the restraint is removed from around her torso. Then a rush of light and humid air hits her as Serena helps her from the car.

Once they are in the lift, Bernie weeps openly. She hasn't cried like this for a long time; her head pounds with each beat of her heart, and the violent lurch of the lift feels like an assault on her brain. She doesn't look at Serena, keeping her gaze lowered as humiliation at her display at the Acropolis washes over her. The other woman keeps one hand lightly at her back, and applies a little pressure as the lift doors open to guide her towards their apartment.

"I'm sorry," Bernie mumbles for the second time as Serena struggles with the keys. There is no verbal response to her apology, and she doesn't check for a physical one. All she can think of is how she had snapped at Serena earlier, and how her friend continues to help her despite it all. After everything she's done, all the hurt she's caused, Bernie doesn't understand why.

Once they are inside, Serena helps her onto the bed, and she lies back, trying to force her body to cease its trembling. Light fingers brush across the sensitive skin by the arch of her foot and then press gently at her Achilles' tendon as Serena removes a sandal. The other follows, and Bernie watches her hesitate for a moment before sitting by the side of the bed. Serena's eyes rake over her legs again, following the lines of her scars, and the slight tilt of her head as she does so grounds Bernie.

"I got a lot of them when the IED went off," she murmurs, shifting awkwardly onto her side so she can face Serena. "My legs were trapped when the front of the vehicle was crushed. There wasn't enough time to cut me out so they dragged me instead."

"I bet that hurt," Serena says, and Bernie exhales in a puff of what might be construed as amusement.

"Like a bitch," she agrees hollowly.

There is a pause as neither of them can think of anything to say. Bernie averts her gaze, studying the cracks in the wall with feigned interest. She hears Serena take a breath.

"What happened today at the Acropolis?"

There it is. She has been waiting for the question to crop up. Dreading it.

"I saw-" She stops herself, pursing her lips. Denial is a dangerous thing. "I thought I saw Charlotte. I was convinced it was her, despite everything."

Serena's fingers twist together in her lap. She looks hesitant, unsure of how to proceed, and Bernie is reminded of an operation they had performed together a couple of weeks before the car accident. Serena had been indecisive then, but together they had made the right decision in the end. They always did.

"When my mother died," Serena begins, and then clears her throat. Her gaze is trained carefully on her own hands, but Bernie studies her face. "I couldn't treat elderly female patients for weeks, even after the compassionate leave. I saw her in all of them - in their mannerisms, physical features..."

"When did it stop?" Bernie asks, her voice a whisper.

"It didn't," comes the blunt reply. "I still see her, but it hurts much less now."

"Time heals," Bernie says dryly. Working in a hospital, it is something she hears frequently. Now she realises just how unhelpful the words are.

"Quite," Serena sighs. "It'll get better. I promise." And then she offers up a small, tentative smile.

She looks hopeful in that instance, the glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the balcony door to dust her cheekbones with warm light and turn her eyes golden. Bernie desperately wants to believe her.


	3. Chapter 3

Bernie is roused early the next morning by the sound of raised voices from outside. Her head hurts. She nestles further into her pillow for a few moments, eventually accepting defeat and blinking open her eyes. There is a white light emanating from the half-shut shutters. It gives the room a bright, clinical feel and she is reminded suddenly of Holby. The thought makes her homesick.

She slowly manoeuvres her legs to the side of the bed, pushing herself into a seating position and stretching until her feet find the wooden floor. It is welcomingly cool beneath her soles. She stands then and tugs at the back of her shirt to unstick it from the sweat-soaked skin of her back. The volume of the voices outside increases as she approaches the balcony door and slides the shutters up. The corresponding screech of metal makes her wince.

The street below Bernie's balcony is narrow and steep, sloping down at one end into the centre of Athens, and up at the other towards the base of Mount Lycabettus, one of the hills that is submerged in the sprawling city. She glances down at it, following the jagged line of the road until she locates the source of the noise. A young woman is stood on the pavement, arms folded and shoulders raised as she shouts rapid words in Greek. There is a pause, during which a male voice interjects, and then she is speaking again angrily. Bernie's brow furrows slightly as she watches her. She wonders briefly what they are arguing about, but brushes the sentiment away and heads back inside.

The slow, heavy breathing from down the hallway confirms that Serena is still asleep, but some subconscious urge provokes Bernie to check on her anyway. Her friend is lying on her side in a loose imitation of the recovery position, one leg hitched up so that the hem of her nightgown is twisted around her thighs. A small frown is etched across her features, and her short brown locks are sticking up in places, as though she has rolled over several times in her sleep and they have stubbornly refused to settle. In dreaming, Serena Campbell looks every bit as fierce as she does stalking the floor of AAU; Bernie feels an involuntary smile creep onto her lips and fights the ridiculous impulse to reach out and touch the sleeping woman. She wonders what would happen if Serena were to wake and find her standing there watching, and the humiliation at the prospect is enough to stir her into action. Heart tapping at an increased pace inside her chest, she retreats into the hallway.

The bathroom of the apartment is all sorts of green, with a murky panelled floor and avocado tiles. A pale sink dominates the small space, sprouting two fern-like taps. The bathroom rug vaguely resembles moss as it creeps over the wooden floor, and the toilet is lime, a few shades duller than the shower curtain. Bernie frowns as she enters, wondering how she hasn't noticed the decor until now, and slides the door shut behind her. The lock doesn't work.

She runs the shower water cold and stands naked beneath it, letting the droplets wash away the sweat and dirt of the previous day. Her palm prickles uncomfortably where the water hits it, still tender from when she had grabbed the metal railing at the Acropolis. Bernie holds it up to examine it, brow furrowing as she registers the rawness of her skin. It is an angry, shining red to commemorate the disaster of the previous day. As she reaches for the shampoo, Bernie vows to herself that today will be better.

Serena is making breakfast when she comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped tentatively around her torso. A smile illuminates her face, and Bernie ducks her head as she hurries into the bedroom to throw on some clothes. When she returns to the kitchen several minutes later, Serena presents her with a bowl of fruit.

They eat out on the balcony, which is temporarily out of the sun's reach as it climbs in the sky. Bernie watches guardedly as Serena bites into a slice of melon and the juice rolls from her lips onto her chin; her fingers itch to reach out and brush it away. And then Serena glances up at her and the notion is buried by a rush of embarrassment. Bernie pretends to be absorbed in eating a grape. A few moments pass before Serena breaks the silence.

"How are you feeling?" she asks suddenly, and Bernie feels an icy hand plunge into her stomach as she remembers that she is supposed to be grieving. The unpleasant sensation is replaced almost immediately by guilt, which settles like a weight in her chest.

"I'm okay," she says, eyes fixed on the grape she holds between her fingers. She must be a dreadful liar in her current emotional state, for the other woman raises an eyebrow, and then her gaze lowers.

"Will you at least let me have a look at your hand?"

Bernie's palm prickles at the reminder, and she balances the bowl on her knee so that she can present it to Serena wordlessly. The other woman shifts forwards in her seat, extending an arm to wrap her fingers around Bernie's wrist. She almost shivers at the contact. The feeling she gets as Serena's eyes study the reddened skin is one of exposure; she is used to being scrutinised, having racked up an impressive number of injuries over the years, but the intensity of her friend's gaze is something else.

"Serena," she says, drawing in a shaky breath. Her friend makes a small sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat, and Bernie takes it as her cue to continue. "About yesterday..."

"If you're about to apologise then don't," Serena murmurs, eyes fixed on Bernie's palm still. "You're grieving, Bernie. What happened yesterday was to be expected."

"I embarrassed you," Bernie responds. She focuses her attention on the fingers of her other hand as they tap against the side of the bowl. Serena looks up at her words, a frown etched on her features.

"If you think that was embarrassing you want to hear about the sort of stuff Edward used to get up to when we were married," she says wryly, that familiar spark of amusement shining behind her eyes. "I'd take a bit of crying at the Acropolis over that any day."

A rush of emotion floods Bernie's chest as the other woman speaks, threatening to send tears spilling from her eyes. She is reminded of the aftermath of Arthur's death, and Serena's show of emotion in the peace garden. 'Don't be nice to me, you'll make it worse', she had said. At the time she hadn't understood, but now...

She realises that Serena's fingers are still wrapped loosely around her wrist, and shifts it a bit. Her friend flushes and withdraws. Bernie clenches her jaw.

"What's the prognosis, doc?"

Serena laughs nervously. "Oh, you'll live," she says, her voice taking on the musicality it has sometimes when she talks to patients. She stands then, arching her back and glancing out across the skyline. "I, uh, though I might go down to the flea market today. It's supposed to be good. Would you- I mean, are you feeling up to it? Because I don't mind either way, and..." She trails off, swallowing and directing her gaze back at Bernie.

"Yeah, I'll come," Bernie says with a forced smile. Truth be told, shopping is the last thing she wants to do right now, but she's scared of being alone and she wants to reassure Serena. And so she presses her lips together and takes her bowl into the kitchen, swallowing down the dull ache of loss as she remembers how much Charlotte had loved to shop.

Bernie wants to be sick as soon as she sees the flea market. She mentally curses Serena and then instantly forgives her, knowing that her friend meant well. But that doesn't stop the stab of panic when she sees the market in all its chaotic glory. It progresses down a long, narrow street, and is such a jumbled mess of colours and scents that she has to look away to stay grounded. People don't appear to move individually past the stalls; they are swept along, part of some larger entity. Serena slips into the masses with ease, and Bernie stumbles to follow her.

"Serena, I don't think..." she begins, but her voice is lost in the clamour of the crowd, and Serena is too busy raking her eyes over the contents of the first stall to notice her lips move. Bernie blinks to clear her mind, trying to focus on one thing to steady herself.

"...promised Fletch I'd bring something back for the kids," Serena is saying casually, picking up a tin of playing cards with some allusion to Greek mythology detailed on the front. Her voice rings in Bernie's head, breaking from the obscure haze of sound around her. "What do you think?"

Bernie stares at her dumbly, limbs stiff. A man pushes past her and she feels the scrape of his bag past her bare arms, smells the overpowering scent of his cologne, hears the rasp of his cough. Her lips twitch as she tries to form a response, but none comes. The breaths are coming short and fast, each tugged from her lungs robotically before she is forced to inhale again.

"Maybe I should just get them sweets," Serena mutters, placing the cards back down. "Although I'm not sure Fletch will thank me for giving Mikey the E numbers. He's got enough on his plate without-" She stops there, finally glancing across at her friend. "Bernie? Are you alright?"

The words barely register, but Bernie swallows thickly, forcing a twisted smile onto her face. "Fine," she says, all too quickly as the directness of Serena's stare incites the connection between her brain and her mouth to finally work again. "I'm fine. Sweets are a good idea."

"Mm," Serena hums, studying Bernie's face sceptically before she concedes. "Yes. I suppose I should get some for the ward as well." And with that, she moves away from the stall, hand touching lightly at Bernie's back to steer her through a gap in the crowd.

They walk for another twenty minutes, Serena stopping every now and then to admire a hat or soap or the bust of some Greek philosopher or other. Twice she jokes about bringing back an inappropriate statue for their office, and Bernie smiles weakly in response. Her own eyes are drawn somewhere else entirely; a military woman at heart, despite recent events, she has been trained to pick up on recurring patterns, and as they make their way through the markets one jumps out at her in particular. It is a circular design loosely resembling an eye, set against a deep blue backdrop. Bernie thinks she recognises it from her time in the army, although she isn't certain, yet it appears time and time again on dish towels, jewellery, even on hip flasks. At one point she points it out to Serena, who nods vaguely and makes some throwaway comment about it matching the trauma scrubs before her interest is snatched away by a silverware stall. Bernie's feet ache, and she hangs back to give Serena some space.

"Lovely ladies, where are you from?" A heavily accented voice grabs their attention and they both turn to see a short, rotund man standing at a stall opposite the silverware vendor.

"England," Serena replies, raising her eyebrows at the compliment. Bernie watches her expression change with discreet curiosity, and then lowers her gaze as her friend turns to look at her. She wants to return Serena's smile but the street vendor's mannerisms strike her as being similar to Marcus' and the thought makes her chest ache.

"You are English!" He beams, and Bernie's stomach twists painfully. "We love English here in Greece!"

"Ah, and we love Greece," Serena replies, clearly amused.

"I am so glad," he says, the picture of sincerity as he claps his hands together. "And just for you, I give you this for just thirty-five euro!" The vendor moves aside to present a delicate silver necklace to the two women.

Serena shoots Bernie a wry smile. "I knew there was a catch. Thank you sir, but we really must be getting on."

His face falls and he scrabbles to pick up the necklace, following them as they begin to walk away. "I make it myself! Out of the finest silver, just for you."

"Really," Serena starts to say, sounding impatient now. Her next words fade out however, as Bernie moves to get a closer look at the necklace. The silver frame of the pendant is twisted into the shape of a heart, and white stones are set into the outside. The inside is painted dark blue, and a white circle is set in the middle, inside which lies a black dot.

"It's the eye again," she speaks, so softly she's unsure whether or not Serena has heard her. But the man clearly has, for he nods his head enthusiastically.

"The eye - yes, yes! It is matiasma, a very common picture here in Greece. It is to save you from evil. You feel uncomfortable or scared, matiasma will protect you."

Serena looks from Bernie to the necklace and back again, her expression softening a little. Then she reaches for her purse. "Go on then," she sighs, withdrawing three notes and passing them to the street vendor. His face lights up, and he grabs the money from her.

"Thank you, kind lady," he says, slipping the necklace into a gift back and giving it to her in return. "Have a lovely day, please."

He retreats to his stall again, tucking the notes carefully into his wallet, and Bernie glances down at the necklace in Serena's hands.

"For Elinor?" she guesses quietly.

Serena gives her a queer look, one she can't quite decipher. She glances down, tipping the intricate jewellery out of its bag, and her fingers fumble for a few moments with the clasp of the necklace. Then, her movements stiff and hesitant, she moves behind the other woman to lift the chain over her head. Bernie turns her face to the side in mild surprise and Serena's fingers catch her cheekbone as she does so. Both women freeze for a millisecond, and then Serena brushes aside the blonde locks at the nape of Bernie's neck to fasten the clasp.

"There," she says, voice a little unsteady as she steps back, fingertips lingering for only the briefest of moments. Bernie turns, gaze fixed on the ground. The pendant is nestled in the hollow space just above her sternum, the silver and dark blue complimenting her fair skin. Serena's lips twitch in a half smile.

"Do you feel protected?" She asks, teasing to diffuse the palpable tension that has built between them.

"Thank you, Serena," Bernie mumbles, one hand hesitantly reaching up to her neck to touch the necklace.

"Well, you liked it," comes the flustered reply. "It's just a necklace."

Bernie doesn't respond to that, but she braves a glance upwards and meets Serena's gaze, and the moment that passes between them is enough to let her know that the gesture means a lot more than that.

They stay at the markets a little while longer, Serena picking out a similar necklace for her daughter, a leather wallet for Jason and some Greek sweets for Fletch's kids and the ward, before wandering down one of the alleyways nearby in search of food. The narrow walkway is lined with restaurants and bars, each slowly illuminating under the darkening sky; the sun is setting over the city, touching everything with a delicate rose blush. A buzz of excitement hangs in the air. Bernie feels relatively out of place in her grief.

"How about here?" Serena suggests, briefly touching Bernie's forearm to get her attention. She is gazing at the building opposite them. It is gracefully dilapidated; the blue paint of the shutters is peeling somewhat, but the entire place is lit by golden fairy lights and a vine extends out on a trellis above their heads. Serena's expression is tranquil as she takes it in, and Bernie's breath catches inexplicably in her rush to agree.

The waiter almost falls over in his rush to seat them, offering them a secluded table beneath the vines and virtually thrusting the menu at them. Serena shoots Bernie an amused look as she orders them both a glass of wine.

"I've always liked the tzatziki," she comments vaguely as he scurries off, and Bernie is lost for a moment until Serena points at a spot on the menu. "It's a dip," she explains.

"Oh," Bernie says. She feels herself drifting again, and wishes she could reel her focus back in to what Serena is saying. Instead her attention is grabbed by the miniature form of a fly as it perches on the edge of their table, rubbing its fragile legs together. She watches as it creeps towards the menus, and then as it pauses, senses vibrations in the air and takes flight. Their wine glasses are placed on the table with a clink of glass. A flicker of light disrupts the darkness as the candle is lit. Bernie is dragged reluctantly back to awareness once more.

"The chef sends his regards," says a voice, and a bottle of clear liquid and two glasses of ice are set down between them. Serena's face lights up.

"Thank you," she beams. Bernie reached out to twist the bottle and study the label. Ouzo, 40%.

"What is it?" She asks Serena dubiously as the waiter retreats into obscurity again.

"It tastes of liquorice," comes the reply. "You're supposed to have it with ice. Try a little."

Bernie reaches for a glass and unscrews the bottle, pouring them both a little of the alcohol. It turns cloudy upon contact with the ice and she raises her eyebrows.

Upon taking a sip, she pulls her face. It is strong, enough to numb her tongue momentarily, and far too sweet. The aftertaste lingers in her mouth in a giddy, tingling rush. Serena laughs at her expression, and Bernie can't help but smile in response, swallowing a mouthful of wine to wash away the taste and only succeeding in making it a little less potent.

"Everyone drinks Ouzo in Greece," Serena tells her, lifting her own glass to her lips. Her eyes don't leave Bernie's face. They are golden brown, taking on the warm hue of the candle's flame. The liquid in her glass sends ripples of light across her cheeks. She looks like an illustration from a tarot card, Bernie thinks; vivacity is present in every aspect of her being, so much so that she seems to glow.

Bernie wonders then what would happen if they were to kiss. The thought takes her by surprise; she hasn't felt desire like this since Afghanistan. Of course she has admired Serena - it would be hard not to, really, and of course she is a beautiful woman - Bernie would have to be blind to not see that, but never before has she felt such an intense longing for her.

"Serena," she says softly, not knowing quite what she wants to say but feeling the need to vocalise it regardless. Serena glances up at her, framed by the soft shine of the fairy lights.

"What is it?"

Bernie opens her mouth, searching for the words to articulate exactly how she feels, and then she lets out a small yelp as a small, hard weight bounces from her head.

Both women stare at each other, stricken, and then down at the floor where the offending item - a shrivelled grape from the vine above their heads - has rolled beneath the table.

And then Bernie laughs. She laughs, and it's been such a long time since she's found anything remotely amusing that the feeling is almost foreign to her. A lightness bubbles in her chest. Serena gapes for a moment, startled, and then she too grins, giving in to the infectious sound of Bernie's mirth.

The waiters look on from their stations, each one silently touched at the sight and sound of the two women, surrounded by golden light and giggling like teenagers as the sky darkens above them.


End file.
